


The Closet Offense

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: Watson makes an indecent proposition in an even less decent location.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HiddenLacuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/gifts).



"This is a very bad idea," Holmes declared as the door clicked shut behind him. 

Watson paid him no heed. He seized Holmes by the lapels and pressed him against that same door. They kissed, or, rather, Holmes was kissed. Roughly. His mouth tasted of middle-grade scotch tinged with the acrid flavor of an empty stomach, and Watson had no plans to stop tasting it. 

"This is about the most foolish idea you've ever had," Holmes repeated when he at last managed to pry himself free.

“ _You’ve_  had worse ones," Watson reminded him, "remember the hearth rug at Baskerville Hall?"

"That was very different, and you know it."

A hand pressed against the placket of Holmes’s trousers. Perhaps, Holmes mused, he ought not to have drunk that third glass of scotch; this proposition was beginning to sound tempting. Watson leaned his weight against him, causing an involuntary rumble to brew in the back of his throat. Very tempting.

"Well,” Watson’s voice was dark and rich and dripping. His lips brushed against Holmes’s ear. “You were the one with your hand in my trouser pocket on the way here. Fondling me under my overcoat in front of everyone. I took it as an invitation."

Holmes cleared his throat and tried to sober himself.

"An invitation to entertain ourselves  _at home_. Not to commit misdemeanors in the broom closet of Scotland Yard."

On the other side of the closet door, a third of London’s finest were still boisterously singing one another’s praises. There was good cause to celebrate; that night marked the conclusion of six grueling weeks of investigation into a gang of rather violent traffickers. Holmes had not been the only one to forgo sleep and meals to see the culprits brought to justice—the satisfaction of having caught the lot of them was enough to turn New Scotland Yard into a veritable New Year’s party. Bottles of brandy and scotch had appeared from desk drawers and disappeared into men. There had been cheering, singing and more than a few embarrassing toasts already, and they showed no signs of stopping their revelry.

It was unlikely, amid the merry chaos, that they were even missed. Unlikely that anyone had noticed the closet door open and shut. More unlikely, still, that anyone should think to look for the guests of honor in this hiding place. All the same, laughs and hurrahs and snippets of conversations seeped through the door, and the closeness of it made Holmes’s heart race. 

"Felony, in fact," he muttered under his breath, "I believe it's a felony."

Watson, who had been busying himself with his lips against the edge of Holmes’s collar, paused his kisses to smirk. 

“As though you’re worried.”

“As quick as I am to question the observational prowess of the average policeman, I very much doubt they would fail to detect a crime being committed on their own premises.”

“You steal things from the offices constantly.”

"That is  _not_  stealing. That is pinching, and I only do it to make a point."

Holmes repressed a grin at the thought of his little collection: ink wells, blotting rolls, official stamps, Lestrade's third favorite tie pin, and even a constable's helmet. Each time larger, more important things disappeared from inspectors’ desks or filing cabinets made their way into Holmes’s pockets. He had expected to be noticed straight off, but that was nearly five years ago.

“ _Quod erat demonstrandum_ ,” was Watson’s smug reply.

Six weeks. Six terribly long weeks, during which, Holmes had had little time for anything beyond decoding messages, tracing stolen goods, or inveigling himself to influential ruffians. Now, Watson’s thigh was pressed against him in precisely the right way. Watson’s hands were fitted perfectly against his hips. In the near-dark, Watson was looking at him with that impossible, dangerous expression—with the eyes of a hungry tiger. Very, supremely tempting, indeed.

“You’re right,” Watson began in mock-earnest. His thigh flexed between Holmes’s legs. The hands on his hips tightened their grip. “Entirely too foolish. We ought to rejoin the party.”

They kissed. Or, rather, Watson was kissed. Holmes seized him, a hand on either side of his face, and drew him in with a clumsy ferocity. Teeth bumped. Noses tussled for space. A mustache got rather more wet than intended. Holmes’s hands coursed down Watson’s back, along his sides, under his jacket, beneath his waistcoat. The closet was entirely too small and entirely too warm; his fingers marveled at the way the heat made Watson’s shirt cling to the small of his back, to the dip just above his arse. With their faces so near, Holmes could pick out the rich, Watsonian scent above the smell of dust and brass-polish. He pressed their foreheads together, reveling in it.

“I  _missed_  you,” mumbled Holmes. 

Was it odd to see someone nearly every day and still to miss them? Probably not much odder than rejoicing as Watson moved a hand to palm him through his trousers. Fingers traced along his erection, a thumb stroking his cockhead through the wool. For a moment, their hips parted while buttons were undone and fabric was pushed aside, and when they collided again, it was with the jolting pleasure of firm flesh against flesh.

Watson took them both in hand, fingers straining around their combined girth. His movements were slow, at first. He knew Holmes liked the sensation of their pricks flush against one another—enjoyed the feel of their pulses drumming out competing rhythms. Slow, measured strokes, until they were both hot and eager. Until fat drops of pre-ejaculate welled up and spilled over the both of them. Until Holmes’s legs were quivering and he dropped his head against Watson’s shoulder. 

At one point, someone outside stumbled. The door behind Holmes jostled in its frame. As they heard the man curse, and his companions’ facetious cheers, Holmes’s cock twitched at the terrifying nearness of it.

“Think of it,” Watson rumbled, his own heart leaping, “there must be nearly thirty policemen out there.”

Holmes let his head fall back against the door, grinning. “Are you going to pull them off next?”

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

Watson wasted little time in claiming the newly-exposed expanse of Holmes’s throat. His lips dragged themselves from Holmes’s collar, to his jaw and back again. He shifted his grip, ignoring his own erection to curl his fingers more completely around Holmes’s. The time for slowness ended; Watson sped his wrist, his thumb firm and commanding along the underside of Holmes’s cock. The change was enough to leave Holmes clutching at Watson’s sleeves.

Watson pressed his lips to Holmes’s ear and shushed him; only then did Holmes notice he was whimpering. He bit his lip to stifle the sound, hips thrusting into Watson’s grip. He glanced down and nearly choked with a moan at the sight: his cockhead disappearing and reappearing between the other man’s fingers, while Watson’s neglected prick perched stiffly between their bodies. It was the noise Watson made that did him in—when Holmes’s fingers wrapped around his cock, Watson let out a hiccup of excitement that left Holmes reeling. Not quite a moan, not quite a whine, not quite as quiet as they ought to have been, it sent a primal bolt through Holmes’s body, ending with him spurting unceremoniously over Watson’s fingers.

“My—you  _did_  miss me.”

Watson removed his hand, smearing some of the mess across the head of his own prick before drawing his handkerchief from his sleeve. To see the calm on his face, one might not have known how near Watson's own crisis lingered, but the signs were clear when one knew what to look for, written in the tensing of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the long, indolent way he blinked. Holmes sunk back against the door, admiring him with a wicked grin. 

“You prat,” he hissed and tightened his grip on Watson’s cock, working him quickly. “Now, hurry up before someone hears you grunting in here like a leopard in heat.”

A clever reply caught in Watson’s throat. He came, shivering, with one hand gripping Holmes’s arm and another, messy hand getting even messier as he attempted to hold his handkerchief in place. For a moment, they leaned against one another, Watson’s head on Holmes’s shoulder while Holmes did his best to clean them up. Tucked and buttoned and straightened, they nearly looked presentable. Perhaps, Holmes hoped, no more frazzled than a man ought to look after a few glasses of scotch.

“Well,” Holmes announced into the quiet which had settled between them. “As this was your scheme, I expect you have decided how we’re to escape.”

Watson licked a lingering drop of spunk from his finger and adjusted his bracers. “I have, in fact. You’ll open that door, and we’ll leave.”

“And should someone notice us?”

“They sound as though they won’t notice much.”

As if to prove Watson’s point, a loud cheer rose up somewhere on the far side of the room, dissolving into a clumsy rendition of “The Flying Trapeze”. With a nod, Holmes opened the door and they slipped through it. They were, as Watson had predicted, quite unnoticed, as everyone’s attention was focused on a ruddy-faced constable performing some ill-advised balancing act atop a teetering tower of chairs. Not exactly a trapeze, but seemingly as dangerous.

Hats and coats and walking sticks were fetched. In the lamplight, Holmes found a fair bit of evidence dripped against the front of his trousers and buttoned his overcoat hastily to conceal it. They were nearly to the door when a familiar voice reached out to halt them:

“Ah—there you are!” exclaimed Inspector Gregson, “I thought perhaps the two of you had left.”

They had no choice but to turn and face him. Watson always thought a few drinks suited Gregson well; the stoicism melted into a quiet, jovial temper. All the same, he never seemed to lose his piercing gaze, and stood now, looking at them expectantly as a terrier. They glanced quickly between themselves, an action that hardly merited notice. If Holmes appeared flushed, it was perfectly attributable to the scotch. Watson seemed suddenly to have something in his throat, and so Holmes was forced to answer:

“No, no. No, not quite. Watson had merely pulled me aside to discuss some of the more immaterial details of the case.”

“Immaterial to  _us_ , of course,” agreed Gregson, with a laugh that belied his insobriety. He turned to Watson to add, “yet, just the sort that make for fun reading, eh?”

Watson was not sure he had ever heard Gregson use the word ‘fun’ before; it didn’t suit him. Nevertheless, he nodded in what he hoped was an appropriately jolly manner. 

When, at last, his tongue untied itself, he said, “Well, I suppose we had better run along… Congratulations, again, Inspector.”

“Yes, and my congratulations as well,” added Holmes.

“No, the congratulations are yours, Mr. Holmes,” insisted Gregson. “This time I must admit: we could not have done it without you.”

Congratulations went around and around, until everyone was dizzy from it and moved on to goodbyes. And what were goodbyes without handshakes? The last—between Holmes and Gregson—was hearty and too-firm.

“Careful, there,” said Gregson as Holmes pulled his hand away, “you seem to have snagged my ring.”

“Have I? Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my mistake.”

Watson could hardly contain a chuckle as Holmes was forced to hand it over. Another round of goodbyes and they made their escape. Outside, the street was slick with fresh snow and the air smelled of frost and wood-stoves. They walked up Whitehall toward Charing Cross in perfect silence.

“Watson,” began Holmes once they were safely tucked into a cab, “next time you have a brilliant urge to frig me somewhere ludicrous, please be a little more restrained in your choice of location.”

A laugh was probably not the reaction one expected, but Watson laughed all the same. Holmes tried to glare at him, but the smile etched on his lips rather undermined the effect. Holmes tried to insist on his seriousness—for he was serious—but halfway through the two of them dissolved into full, deep laughter. A nearly manic release at the satisfaction of their escapade. Holmes buried his face in his hands and Watson’s sides ached. They had both been more nervous than they cared to admit.

“I say,” Watson wheezed as the laughter began to subside, “that was too much, trying to take Inspector Gregson’s ring like that.”

Holmes shook his head, still shaking with a mix of excitement and giggles. 

“On the contrary, I was not trying to take his ring at all. I was trying to take this.”

From within his sleeve Holmes produced a small, careworn black wallet. There, between spidery fingers, was Inspector Gregson’s warrant card, the emblem of his rank, the grantor of his authority. Once more, the cab erupted in laughter. They were nearly halfway home by the time it quieted.

“You’ll have to give that back—he’ll know it was you.”

Holmes nodded, still looking pleased with himself, and settled back against the carriage seat. “Most likely. Though I should love to see his face when he notices. Thus, I suppose, ends my criminal spree within Scotland Yard. And what an ending.”

“Never again?” asked Watson, taking Holmes’s hand within the dark of the cab.

“Never again,” agreed Holmes, giving Watson’s hand a squeeze. “At least, not  _there._ Somewhere else. In a cab, for instance.”

“In  _a_  cab?”

“In  _this_  cab, perhaps.”

The driver did not notice his carriage jostling anymore than usual. The snow had picked up, turning the paving stones into slippery obstacles, which sent horse and cab both skittering to and fro. It was miserable driving weather, and it must have made for an unpleasant trip—once or twice he heard his passengers give out a little cry at being tossed about. When he finally made it to their destination, the poor blokes barreled out looking as though they’d been given the once-over. He couldn’t figure it, then, why they gave him such a generous gratuity. Must have been the spirit of the season, he reasoned, as the two gentlemen staggered to their door, giggling like drunken loons.  And with a flick of the reins, he was off.


End file.
